


There Are Unexplored Possibilities About You

by hifunctioning



Series: Focus [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom!Sherlock, Dom!John, Face-Fucking, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre Reichenbach, Romance, Smut, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:59:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hifunctioning/pseuds/hifunctioning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock struggles with his massive brain, while John struggles with his fluid sexuality. They find a mutually beneficial solution. </p><p>"John dropped his hands and saw Sherlock, now standing in the kitchen doorway, fidgeting in his pockets, his jaw tense and eyes burning blue. He wanted to say 'yes, yes, you selfish arrogant git, I do prefer her, the earth revolves around the sun not around you, I want her, and I want loads of other women, not you.' He might have been able to if it weren't for those relentless eyes. Instead, he said in a voice that was both rough and helpless, 'Come here.'"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Very loosely inspired by the two quotes below. I just loved how sweetly S calls J an idiot in the first quote, and how sweetly J calls S an attention whore in the second, and so I made them be about nasty kinky sex. And also the angst. 
> 
> 'I never get your limits, Watson,' said Holmes. 'There are unexplored possibilities about you.' -- The Sussex Vampire  
> My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty. -- A Study in Scarlet
> 
> BTW, not that it matters, but in my head the 2 stories in this series are totally not in the same verse as any of my other fics.

Life at 221B Baker Street had always been strange, but it had never been awkward. Until this.

John should've seen it coming. He was a fool not to. They'd come home from a case, high on adrenaline, laughing their way up the stairs. John had put the kettle on for tea, turned around in time to see Sherlock taking off his scarf, exposing his perfect throat, and somehow (it had to have been the sleep deprivation, John hadn't had a proper sleep in three days) the sight was so beautiful it almost brought tears to his eyes. Sherlock must have seen it in his face because he met his gaze and froze in the process of taking off his coat.

There had been moments leading up to that one of course. Glances that lasted a little too long. Hands touching in a cab. One of them brushing up against the other to reach for something on a high shelf. The time John had to pick bits of glass out of Sherlock's chest and clean and bandage him, that had taken bloody forever. The time Sherlock tested a drug on both of them and they found themselves on the floor, snuggled cheek to cheek. Alright, that one was almost awkward, but instead it was so ridiculous they laughed till tears streamed down both their faces.

But that frozen moment, that night in the kitchen, John's heart stopped and although he tried to tell himself no, this is not cardiac arrest, you cannot die from this, he was convinced, absolutely convinced, it would not beat again unless Sherlock touched him. And then Sherlock touched him.

From there, it was mostly a blur. All heat and fumbling and hands and tongues and everywhere. Later, John could remember only disconnected fragments. Drowning in that kiss, eyes open because Sherlock's eyes were open and he could not look away and he was sure he was dying and he never wanted to stop. Sherlock's eyes fluttering closed and that's when his brain kicked back in gear for just a moment, his traitorous brain throwing its shoulder against the door, trying to break in and shut it all down, but then there was Sherlock pressing against him and moaning softly and his brain knew when it was beat, it gave up and slunk away. John could remember, though it made him hard and filled him with horror every time, dropping to his knees desperately, hungrily. With vivid clarity, he remembered the small noise in the back of Sherlock’s throat at that moment, and the way his entire body tensed just slightly before he rested his hands on John’s head, and later (though he tried not to think about this, tried not to analyze it, tried not to touch himself as it replayed over and over in his mind) he realized that sound, that motion, was surprise. He had _surprised_ Sherlock Holmes. But at the time, he didn’t think of that, he didn’t think of anything other than wanting Sherlock, wanting to know him in every way possible. He could remember how Sherlock’s hands and legs stilled and his wordless moan broke into silence as he came. He could remember (though later he convinced himself that no, he’d really just imagined it, dreamed it, that couldn’t be real) Sherlock’s eyes, so vulnerable and open and almost pleading as John came in his hands.

By all rights it should have been, but that night was not awkward at all, because they were so exhausted they barely made it to Sherlock's bed. When John half-woke for a few minutes in the middle of the night to find Sherlock's impossibly long limbs wrapped around him, somehow it neither surprised nor bothered him.

The next morning in the shower, Joh started to pick apart what it all meant, the realization slowly dawning on him, the panic rising steadily in his gut. But when he stepped out of the bathroom, thank you God and Greg Lestrade, Sherlock was standing there grinning, saying, "A case, John! Hurry up and get dressed!"

It was a murder-suicide in Tooting that turned out to be a murder-murder-murder-murder. It was blessedly intricate, requiring the full attention of Sherlock's brain and all of John's capacity in fieldwork and errands, both large and small. While John was in the flat, Sherlock was talking, and John knew his job was simply to sit there and admire, something he could do very well indeed. If he had something to say, he would say it, and Sherlock would shoot it down with a careless insult, and that was fine. If he had nothing to say, he could just watch the afternoon light play across Sherlock's cheekbones or notice the elegant curve of his long fingers as he waved his hands around or consider the lovely silhouette of his profile in front of the window. He could do those things, but of course he didn't, because John Watson was heterosexual. He had never thought of another man this way in all his 39 years and if once, in basic training, he'd let another man give him a handjob, it did not mean he was sexually attracted to that man. He wasn't. It was dark and he was thinking only of Laura Patel.

The Tooting case lasted a few days. And then it was over. They returned from the Yard in a cab, walked up the stairs in silence. John almost went to put the kettle on for tea but then thought of how the last case ended, made an about face, and sat down in his armchair.

"John?" Sherlock was taking off his scarf and coat. John was absolutely not going to look. "John, cuppa tea?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice," John replied. And then, because he couldn't expect Sherlock to understand the subtleties of polite communication, "You should make it."

"Oh." Sherlock sounded slightly annoyed, but he was in a good mood and inclined to humor his flatmate. He turned the kettle on and, with some effort, found the tea bags and a couple of mugs.

"John?" Sherlock called again. John didn't answer. He was staring intently at a newspaper, not exactly reading it, but on the plus side, definitely not looking at Sherlock. "I want to have sex again." John dropped the newspaper and groaned. When he looked up, Sherlock was standing next to him with their tea mugs. "Does that sound mean that you don't?"

That night, John's brain put up a noble fight. He tried to convince Sherlock that he was straight, and this had to be some kind of fluke which would no doubt blow over ("Are you sure you haven't been putting something in my tea?"). He tried to explain to Sherlock that sex was a bad idea for friends, for flatmates, and for professional associates and therefore, a spectacularly bad idea for them in particular. He tried to persuade Sherlock that what they were mistaking for intense attraction was in fact just the camaraderie and adrenaline of their work, combined with pent up sexual energy, and maybe they should both be dating more, or at least John should be dating more and Sherlock should… find some other outlet.

Sherlock listened, or made an unusual effort to pretend to be listening, sitting in his armchair across from John. Finally he interrupted him with a hand on his knee and said, "John. Just when I think you have reached the limits of your stupidity, you show me a universe of unexplored possibilities. You're really quite incredible. Are you going to fuck me or not?"

John sucked in his breath and felt, again, that he would never be free to look away from those eyes. And then Sherlock kissed him and everything fell apart. Only this time, he found himself with Sherlock's leg draped over his shoulder, pushing himself in deeper, Sherlock gripping his arms so tightly there were bruises there the next day, feeling he would implode from the heat and the closeness and the sound of Sherlock's voice.

Afterwards, Sherlock went to sleep on the sofa and John went to his bed and stared at the ceiling and wondered how he could feel so completely connected to someone and so completely alone within the space of a few minutes.

It got awkward then. There was no case in the morning. John avoided Sherlock for the first day, which was not his style at all, he'd always prided himself on being a responsible and communicative person in these situations. When he had one-night stands, the woman involved always knew exactly what she was getting into. He excelled at mornings-after; he knew exactly the right smiles and kisses to be reassuring and flattering without promising more than he could give, and though he tended to stammer through those conversations (fortunately, in a way most women found endearing), he was always able to communicate his intentions clearly and respectfully. But all of that was useless now. He'd developed no skills relevant to a post-shag talk with a supergenius detective sociopathic flatmate friend. Guy.

Fortunately, he had a long shift at the surgery on the second day. On the third day, he woke to the sound of a minor explosion in the kitchen and decided to take that as a call to action. He got dressed (never a good idea to have these conversations in pyjamas) and found Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by puddles of… something… and singed clumps of… something else.

"Yes, yes, I'll clean it up as soon as I'm done," Sherlock said without looking up from his microscope.

"Yeah, see that you do," John replied, although he knew that he wouldn't. "Listen, I want to talk to you about something. You can keep on with your microscope though."  _Please do,_ he thought. _The last thing I need is your eyes while I'm trying to do this._

"Mm," Sherlock grunted. "You're uncomfortable with the fact that we've had sex twice. You're ambivalent, you want to know how I feel" – the word  _feel_  seemed to float in front of him with exaggerated quotation marks around it – "and you still think it's a bad idea but you're not actually going to tell me to stop."

John was far from surprised. He'd rather hoped that Sherlock would condense the whole conversation in exactly this manner. "Yeah, that about covers it. Except, actually I am going to tell you to stop." There. Done. John felt like giving himself a medal.

"Oh?" Sherlock's body stiffened, but he didn't lift his head from his microscope. A long moment stretched across the flat. "Didn't you like it?"

John couldn't identify the tone in his voice. Was this teasing? Insecurity? Scientific curiosity? He cleared his throat nervously. "I… of course I… Well, you were there, didn't you observe…" Sherlock's mouth twisted into a half-smile. "So, yeah. But, y'know, all the reasons I said before. We have a good friendship here, don't we? I don't want to muck it up, the way sex tends to do. And I'm straight, so it's bound to crash and burn. I just think it's best…"

"What do you mean you're straight?" Sherlock stood up slowly, like a cat stretching.

"I don't like men, I don't look at men that way. This… You know I don't have any problem with people being gay…" He knew how weak that sounded but it was true, wasn't he Harry's only defender when she came out? Wasn't he the one to restrain their stepfather while she got her things from the house and the one to talk to their mum and gran for two years until finally they could say "I love you" and invite her to Christmas dinner? But Harry was different, she'd always liked girls, ever since she was caught playing House with Jessie Grayson (who, for the record, John had kissed first), there'd never been any question about her. And there had never been any question about John either. Till now. "It's just that I'm not. I haven't ever.  _Ever_. I don't know how to explain this."

"Could it be because I'm unlike any other man you've ever met?"

John snorted. "Well that is… certainly true. You are singularly arrogant and self-centered and obnoxious, that's for sure."

In the kitchen doorway, Sherlock waved a vaguely dismissive gesture. "Don't pretend, you sound ridiculous. Obviously I'm in a different category. You're in a different category too. I have never met anyone like you. You're ordinary, with average intelligence or barely above, your mind rarely harbors an original thought, and yet you are so utterly fascinating. I don't have any idea how you do it. And I want to have sex with you. What difference does it make if you're a man or a woman?"

John licked his lips nervously. "It makes a hell of a lot of difference to me."

"Does it? Why?"

John's brain was useless. It tried to rally for a token fight, but flopped over in exhaustion and transmitted only fragments like  _lips… collarbone… buttons…_  and John was left defenseless again. "Sherlock," he finally said, staring at his hands. "You have already reached into every other part of my life and turned it upside down. You don't get to have this too. I'm sure you think you're the most marvelous thing that ever happened to me, but just… Just stop. For once in your life…" He cursed under his breath and left.

Sherlock shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and chewed his bottom lip. He began to pace furiously around the sitting room but then stopped, squared his shoulders, and picked his violin up off the desk.  _John has stomped out of here cursing me at least 24 times,_  he thought.  _He always comes back. Not to worry._ He settled the violin under his chin and began a Vivaldi concerto.

 


	2. Chapter 2

That night, John didn't come home after the surgery. He went to a pub and got a bit pissed and met a lovely ginger with round hazel eyes and round freckled breasts and the most deliciously round arse that bounced just a bit as she walked ahead of him. As they kissed on the sidewalk, he learned that she was staying with her sister just then and so they'd have to go to his place. He really was hoping to avoid that. But when they got to 221B, Sherlock didn't appear at the top of the stairs with some bizarre and urgent demand, and they weren't disturbed during the night by explosions or violin solos, and the sex was very nice, warm and familiar and easy and made up of things John could understand. In the morning, he smiled to see her hair spread across his pillow. Hoping to keep her away from Sherlock, he told her that the shower was broken, but she didn't seem to mind, they kissed and exchanged phone numbers and she left, and John felt like he might be on solid ground again for the first time in days.

"Sherlock, it smells terrible in here, at least you could've opened up some windows. Oh god, please don't tell me you're dissecting pigeons in our kitchen."

Sherlock obliged, and was silent. He turned his attention to the third pigeon in a line of four pinned out before him.

John opened the windows. He stood a moment in the sitting room, leaning out over Baker Street and inhaling lungfuls of fresh air. When he drew his head back in he found Sherlock staring at him.

"What's her name?," he asked casually.

"What? Oh Christ. Do we have to do this?"

"Do what?"

"You don't care about her name. Is this where you tell me she's a kleptomaniac and has syphilis and a homicidal ex-boyfriend?"

"How could I possibly know that, John? I haven't even seen her. All I know is that she's 160 to 165 centimeters tall, between eight and nine stones, and sprained her right ankle not long ago and shouldn't be wearing heels. I'd guess she's a runner, though the sprain could've been an everyday fall. She's on her feet all day, need more data to deduce her occupation. She's recently out of a relationship and enjoying her new freedom. She had three orgasms and the last time, she was on top." He paused, thought a moment. "She was wearing tight jeans and you liked her arse. I'm not psychic, John, I don't know how you think I could come up with anymore than that."

John sighed. "Her name is Tricia. She sprained her ankle running the Royal Parks Half. She's a nurse."

"Ah. But you met her at a pub, not the surgery."

"Brilliant," John replied dryly. "Are we done here?"

"Did you enjoy sex with her?"

"Jesus." John covered his face with both hands. "Fine. Yes. Very much."

"Did you prefer her over me?"

"I… um… Sherlock, I am a straight man and she is a beautiful woman."

"That's not even remotely what I asked."

John dropped his hands and saw Sherlock, now standing in the kitchen doorway, fidgeting in his pockets, his jaw tense and eyes burning blue. He wanted to say  _yes, yes, you selfish arrogant git, I do prefer her, the earth revolves around the sun not around you, I want her, and I want loads of other women, not you._ He might have been able to if it weren't for those relentless eyes. Instead, he said in a voice that was both rough and helpless, "Come here."

Sherlock came, and stood in front of John, so close their faces were almost touching. John concentrated on breathing and then on Sherlock's neck, the long elegant lines of it and the way it sloped under the collar of his shirt. He reached up his left hand, found the carotid artery, felt the pulse quicken under his fingers. He curved his hand around Sherlock's throat, traced it down along to his collarbone and then up to his jawline. Sherlock exhaled slightly and lowered his head for a kiss. Instead, John placed his hands firmly on Sherlock's shoulders and said gruffly, "On your knees."

There was a pause, a deep breath, and then he was there, rubbing his face across John's crotch, his hands on John's hips, and John's eyes were closed and his breath coming ragged as his brain struggled to make itself useful in some way. "My belt," John was finally able to gasp and Sherlock responded immediately, as if he'd been waiting for the command, his long graceful fingers quickly pulling the belt out of its loops. He looked up, his pale eyes holding John's, and lifted up the belt with both hands, an offering. John took it, pulled it taut, and went hard as his brain suddenly burst back on the scene, offering a dizzying menu of ways he could use it. He clenched his jaw to keep control and decided to keep it simple, this time.  _This time? As if there will be more? Stop it. Stop, shut up._ John looped the belt around Sherlock's neck, caressing it lightly as he did so, and then abruptly yanked it tight with his left hand.

Sherlock gasped, his fingers dug into John's hips, his pupils dilated. John groaned quietly. "My cock," he said, and again Sherlock sprang into action, unbuttoning, unzipping, and then licking the shaft slowly up and down, circling the base with his long fingers, kissing the precum off the tip, licking his own lips, taking it in his mouth, and although John knows it wasn't possible, he felt like the entirety of Sherlock's incomprehensible, multitudinous, exquisite brain was concentrated down to the singular focus of his cock.

John was mesmerized, speechless, shaking. "Take it all," he rasped, and Sherlock did, swallowing the whole length of it, gagging just slightly, then relaxing, adjusting and taking the rest. John drew a long painful breath, buried his right hand deep in Sherlock's hair, tugged hard, and said in the firmest voice he could muster, "I'm going to fuck your mouth now." Sherlock hummed low in his throat and the vibrations reverbated throughout John's body. "Ah," John said, "you like that." And he would not have been able to describe the feeling, the heat and sweetness thickly spreading to every centimeter of his body, the high of knowing what Sherlock liked and what Sherlock liked was this: John's cock thrusting in his mouth, one hand holding his head in place, the other pulling the belt tight on his neck, his eyes watering, his throat opening, and no space for anything else, this was consuming, for just a moment this was everything. They were both making sounds, groans and whimpers and others, and then John was gasping out, "swallow," and Sherlock did, hungrily, every drop, like it would never be enough.

John's eyes were closed, his breathing gradually returning to something like normal, his left hand still holding the end of the belt, but slack now. His right hand rested on Sherlock's head, as if he'd left it there accidentally. Sherlock kept his hands on John's hips, his eyes fixed on John's face, waiting. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was calculating the ph of John's semen and the average speed of the tremors in his legs when he came, notating and cataloging the noises he made and adding them to the growing index, picturing the red abrasions left on his own throat which would last 24 to 36 hours, visualizing what was under the muscles under the skin under his hands, pelvic bone, iliac crest, acetabulum, femur… But that was all faint background noise. The bulk of his mind was relatively empty. Heaven. He waited to see if John could prolong this feeling. Doubtful.

John opened his eyes at last. Below him, Sherlock's lips were rough and red, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes, heavy-lidded, were dark now and insistent, pushing at John, asking… John had no idea what he was asking. He pulled the belt off Sherlock's neck and saw disappointment flicker in those pale eyes. He grabbed Sherlock's chin roughly and bent down. He thought of kissing him but let go, tucked himself back into his trousers, stepped back, and turned away. He saw his own reflection in the mirror above the fireplace and stared himself down. _Who is that man with no self-control, no self-respect,_ he wondered. And the other man in this room, the one with the power to destroy every wall before him, crashing through it like a bulldozer or slicing through it like an elegant sword, who seemed to believe he could have every last bloody thing he wanted, _who is he?_ His wanting was immense, as monstrous and voracious as his mind, and John could feel it looming behind him.

Sherlock sighed as his hands fell, feeling the world start to push back into his mind, leaning in on it, leaking through every crack, the bit of glass on the carpet six centimeters away from the window, the cry of a baby in the flat across the street, the temperature of the room about two degrees warmer than before (this could affect the pigeon experiment, may have to start over), the argument between two cabbies at the corner (he knew from the squeal of tires three minutes ago that the one with the Pakistani accent was right), the suitcase wheels of Mrs. Turner's tenants bumping down their stairs, going on a holiday of at least ten days, the shallowness of John's breathing, the lint on his right sleeve, the tension returning to his back.

 _So this is it, then,_  Sherlock thought.  _Why would this be any different?_  He was still painfully hard, and thought bitterly,  _Looks like I'll be taking care of this myself._ He started to get up and opened his mouth to say,  _Are we done here?_ , planning to precisely mimic John's dry tone when he said those words earlier. But before he could, John spun around, in one blurred movement, and slapped Sherlock across the face. He didn't see it coming and it knocked him off balance, he landed on his elbow, staring up at John in amazement. His cheek stung and his mind, for a fleeting instant, was nothing in the world but that sensation.

John was sitting in Sherlock's armchair now. "Come here," he growled again. And before Sherlock could stand, he added: "Crawl." Sherlock crawled. He was rock hard and his trousers dragged across his erection with each step, his eyes fixed on John's the whole way. Kneeling in front of John again, he waited. A minute ticked by before John gestured at Sherlock's crotch. Holding his stare steadily, Sherlock raised himself up on his knees, unbuttoned his trousers, pulled them down around his hips, and leaned back on his heels. "Touch yourself," John ordered. Sherlock pulled out his cock and began to stroke. "Slower." He swirled his thumb over the tip and slid it down the shaft, smearing precum around it and slowly, more slowly than he could have imagined possible, stroked the length of it, up and down. John watched, and then returned his gaze to Sherlock's eyes. "A little faster now," he whispered, and Sherlock's breath sped up unevenly along with his hand. John grabbed Sherlock's other hand and shoved it roughly into his mouth. Sherlock sucked his own fingers, swirling his tongue around them the same way he did John's cock, and John thought he shouldn't have been able to get hard again so soon but the memory sent shocks through his body. He leaned forward, his lips brushing Sherlock's ear, and said, "Finger yourself." Sherlock didn't hesitate. He twisted his left arm behind him and John knew that had to be uncomfortable, if he were a gentleman he'd help the guy out, but he was not feeling gentlemanly in the least. The most he would do is place one hand on each of Sherlock's shoulders so he wouldn't lose his balance as he leaned forward.

When he found his prostate, Sherlock let out a small guttural moan, tightened his grip on his cock, and pushed his weight into John's hands. He rubbed it again and threw his head back, closing his eyes tightly. "No," John growled, "You keep your eyes open. You look at me. You come when I say you come." Sherlock blinked slowly, not trusting himself to speak, and stared at John as if it were the force of his eyes, not his hands, holding up the weight of his body. John felt it again, that sensation of honey spreading through his veins, the incredible, dizzying high of being the center of Sherlock's attention. Sherlock noticed, of course, John's heartbeat rising again, his breath shallow and uneven, his pupils dilated, his lips trembling. He devoured these details, sorted them into the index he'd already created for this purpose, silently begged for more, but also no, no more, because it was too much, his hand on his cock, his finger inside, and John in front of him, and he would hold on until John said, he would, he bent his focus to this task, so that the atomic numbers of the 14 elements that occur in decay chains of primordial elements and the smell of Mrs. Hudson's baking (cardamom scones, John loved those, she'd be asking him to change a lightbulb or fix a leaky faucet later) and the symptoms of diseases commonly associated with pigeon droppings blurred together and receded into the white noise. He would do this forever if he had to.

John's hands were shaking, or would have been if not for Sherlock's weight depending on them. He thought back to how Sherlock came last time, moaning loudly, an arm thrown across his face. He licked his dry lips and said in a low, dark voice, "Quiet. Be quiet. And look at me." Sherlock looked at John, stroked himself, fingered himself, felt like he was being burned and cracked apart from inside, but didn't stop. Finally he heard John's voice, hoarse but gentle, "Ok. Now."

Sherlock sped up, bit his bottom lip till it bled, squeezed his right hand and dragged it up the length of his cock, pressed his finger in, and a shout rose up in his throat but he swallowed it whole for John and his eyes wanted to slam shut but he threw his concentration into keeping them open for John, so that the orgasm almost snuck up on him and suddenly it was exploding, white heat shooting through every nerve inside him and his eyes were open so he saw wonder on John's face, and he collapsed, his hands on the floor, his head bowed, panting. He felt John's hand on his head, gently stroking his hair, and heard his voice, strangely tight, murmuring, "good, that's good." And then his footsteps, down the stairs and out onto Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

They didn't talk about it, ever. During cases, they acted like they always had before. Sherlock, consumed with the case, was often only vaguely aware of John, of a hot cup of tea appearing before him generally whenever he needed one, of a sandwich or samosa being pushed insistently in front of his face until he gave in and nibbled at it halfheartedly, of a warm presence next to him on the sofa, of occasional listening noises "mm-hmm," and "oh" and "d'you think so?" as he wove his thought process through the air. He was consciously aware of John when he needed him, when there were corpses to examine, when there were especially dull witnesses to interview, when there were boxes of files to sift through, when there were stubborn questions requiring stupid answers, when he couldn't find his mobile, when they exchanged a silent look that said _could be dangerous_ and headed out into the night.

Between cases, some days were just like they were before. Others were not. Between cases, John never asked and Sherlock never said no.

John said things like: "Stop." "Strip." "Lick it." "Take it." "Grab your ankles." "Get on the floor." "Spread your legs." "Open your mouth." "Wider." "Wait." "Beg." And Sherlock did. His lines were simple, all he had to say was: "Yes." "Please." "John." "More."

One afternoon, John said: "Count." Sherlock, spread eagle, face down, tied to the bedposts, started counting the strokes of the riding crop criss-crossing his back, out loud in English and simultaneously in his mind, in French, German, Farsi, Japanese, Mandarin, and Arabic. To his astonishment, by the time he reached 13, he had lost his grasp of all but English, French, and Japanese, and a dozen strokes later, he was struggling with English. His shock must have shown on his face, because John stopped, leaned over, and asked, "Sherlock. Are you ok?" and they all came crashing back in on him, the house in Toulon where they were only allowed to speak French, the Frankfurt accent of his first German teacher compared to the Munich accent of a client two years ago, the elegant curves and interlocking compounds of Farsi, the feel of a paintbrush dragging across rice paper while learning to write Kanji, the repetitious drills for the four tones of Mandarin, the dizzying kaleidoscope of accents and dialects filling his ears in a marketplace in Riyadh.

Sherlock tried to find his way back, whispering, "Fine. More. Please." The crop whined through the air, coming down hard enough to cut, and he shuddered and said again, "More." But he couldn't find his way.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was naked, covered in sweat, on his hands and knees on John's bed, two of John's fingers buried deep inside him, barely caressing him, driving him mad. His cock ached for any contact – a hand, a leg, the friction of the sheets, anything – but John said "don't touch" so Sherlock would not touch. His hands were splayed out on either side of his head as he closed his eyes and breathed and waited.

"What are you thinking about in there?" John asked. His voice had the hard edge that always came out when they had sex, but curiosity as well. Sherlock turned his face against the mattress and didn't answer. John frowned, twisted his fingers, and jabbed them sharply in, shooting spasms of pain and pleasure up Sherlock's spine. "Tell me what you're thinking," he growled, and Sherlock obeyed. "You, John, only you," he panted, because it was almost true, as close to true as it was ever likely to get anyway, and even he understood that you can't say  _You, John, and the thread count of your sheets, and three possible methodologies for a new experiment concerning bone splinters, and the frayed cord on your bedside lamp, and didn't you notice on the way home the amount of traffic on Marlyeborne, they must be doing work on Oxford, I need to confirm and adjust my mental map, and who is Donovan sleeping with now because she was obviously wearing yesterday's clothes today and the deodorant wasn't Anderson's and I'd like to find out who it is so I can take a dig at Anderson next time I see him, but all that's only so much static, you are utterly in the foreground, John, just please don't stop touching me._

"You're lying," John answered in a menacing voice. "Don't ever lie to me. Answer." He added a third finger. Sherlock gasped. "I don't… I can't." Some rawness in his voice made John pause and then pull his fingers out. Sherlock made a desperate little noise, almost a sob. "Turn over," John ordered, and Sherlock was lying on his back, his legs on either side of John, one arm across his face. "Let me see you." The arm fell down to Sherlock's side. John sat back on his heels, rested his hands on his thighs, and considered that with all they'd done, he'd never really allowed himself to look at Sherlock before. 

His eyes traced the outline of the body before him and then slowly lingered over each detail within. He reached out one hand and lightly trailed his fingers down Sherlock's chest, watched him shiver, trailed his fingers down Sherlock's left side, then his right, and rested his palm on Sherlock's stomach, next to his cock. Sherlock groaned and twisted his hips but John murmured "shhh no no wait" and Sherlock had to calm himself, force his back down against the mattress, breathe, watch John, and wait.

John's eyes were fixed on his cock, as if this were something new, as if it they hadn't been shagging for weeks now. Carefully, almost delicately, John placed his hand on it. Sherlock moaned and lifted his hips, pushing himself into John's hand. He felt the hardness and heat of it, the slick of precum leaking down the shaft. He wrapped his hand around it, his eyes scanning back up Sherlock's pale wiry chest, across his collarbones, along his throat, to his jaw, his lips, his nose, his impossible eyes. "Perfect," he exhaled, and Sherlock blinked in surprise. "Look at you. You are bloody perfect. You gorgeous, exquisite creature, you cannot possibly be human, you are too beautiful." John blushed a little; he'd never talked like this before, not to a woman, not to anyone. He thought he probably sounded ridiculous, but he couldn't care, not with the way Sherlock was looking at him, completely enthralled, like this was a holy revelation. And he couldn't care anymore, he realized, if Sherlock was a man or some bizarre previously undiscovered species, he couldn't care if he was straight or gay, or what any of it meant, because it was so simple, what it meant was this body stretched out beneath his hands, vulnerable and open, this body that he would lay down his life to protect, again and again, he was touching this body, what more could there possibly be.

He shook his head and chuckled a little at himself. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, asking why. "I'm an idiot," he explained. "I know," Sherlock replied fondly but breathlessly. "I'm the idiot who's going to fuck you senseless," he added. "I know," Sherlock replied breathlessly and desperately.

John began stroking his hand up and down the length of Sherlock's cock. " "Jesus, do you even know?" he murmured, "Your transport is as amazing as your mind." Sherlock sighed in a way that made John's already-hard cock throb with wanting, and somehow he found the lube and then he was murmuring a steady stream of  _gorgeous beautiful so much perfect want you mine_  as he pushed himself in and Sherlock was wrapping his legs around him, pulling him in, quiet except for his breathing so that he could listen to John and collect his words and take them inside of him, take all of him inside. And John was grabbing his hair and demanding, "Tell me what you want." And Sherlock was sobbing the answer, "You, John." "Tell me who you belong to." "You, John." "Tell me who you give this to." "You, John." "Tell me what you're thinking about." "You, John." And it was true, and then he was chanting  _John John John John_  like a prayer as everything else shrank and receded and the white heat exploded and eclipsed everything inside and out and Sherlock was broken apart, shattered into a million glittering shards until nothing was left. John held the shaking body as tightly as he could, and then he was arching his back and coming, wordlessly, gratefully.

The world was piecing itself back together, but slowly. It wasn't pushing in but floating, just wisps of cloud that Sherlock could easily bat away one by one. They'd accumulate soon enough, but not yet. Right now the only relevant data was John's arm stretched across his chest.

John lay on his side and tried to memorize the expression on Sherlock's face.  _It's odd, three weeks ago I watched him break a man's fingers one by one as if he was eating a bag of crisps, but right now he seems so fragile._  "I would do anything for you," he blurted out. "You know that."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John sideways, without turning his head. "Of course I do," he agreed. "But you…" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Just keep doing what you've been doing." Then he added, "You're doing fine."

John pressed his lips to Sherlock's temple and smiled. "I know," he said.

 


End file.
